Éclair de Lune
by tmthesaurus
Summary: The continuing adventures of Madison Clements, baker and cape wife. Featuring fan favorites like Dr. Strangelove Or: How I Learned To Stop Hating And Love the Taylor and Confessions Of A Former Mean Girl.
1. Chapter 1

Ah, Saturday. I've always liked Saturday. Ask anybody, and they'll tell you that nobody appreciates a good Saturday more than Madison Clements. There's just something almost spiritual about a day of relaxation after a busy week. The thirty seconds of nirvana I had experienced before I realized that the day was, in fact, Wednesday were perhaps the happiest of my life. As I got ready for work, I shot a glare at my so-called better half, who was sleeping smugly in our bed. Before we moved in together, I had thought it was impossible for a sleeping person to be smug.

I ate breakfast in companionable silence, enjoying the solemnity of my bowl of sugar with traces of wheat. I made my partner's lunch and left it on the counter with a post-it note reminding her that it was her turn to cook tonight.

I arrived at the Busy Bee at 4:00. Claire, my apprentice pastry chef, was already there. We sanitized the work environment, checked our inventory, and prepared the ingredients for the goods we would be making that day. The sun was flirting with the sky by the time we began to bake. Claire was putting the final touches on a batch of macarons when our first customers arrived in the salon de thé.

Mrs. Rogers was a teapot-shaped woman with a fondness for profiteroles. She ordered her usual cream puff and sugary coffee combo, and took a seat at the counter, preparing to update us on the daily dealings of the neighborhood. Mr. Jones, an elderly gentleman, was dressed in a tweed suit. He ordered a scone with jam and cream and a cup of Earl Grey, then sat at a table by the window and read his newspaper. John, the investment banker, ordered "an honest cup of Joe." It would probably be the only honest thing that would touch his lips for the day.

Apart from the regulars, there was a mother and daughter, the former in her mid-20s and the latter around 4. The girl said something to the woman. The woman smiled and sat at a table. The girl came up to the counter. She was looking at her mother, who was gesturing for her to turn around when I spoke.

"Welcome to the Busy Bee." The girl yelped and ran over to her mother, burying her head in her lap. The woman stroked her hair and mouthed the words "first time." I came out from behind the counter and walked to the pair. I knelt beside the girl and softly whispered, "Hi there. What's your name?"

"Catherine." Her voice was muffled by her mother's skirt.

"Catherine, huh? I'm Maddie." She looked up at me, tears threatening to spill from her eyes if I said the wrong thing. I smiled gently at her. "Did you want to get something?" She nodded. "Why don't you come show me what you want, and I'll get it for you?"

"Okay." Catherine took my hand and walked with me to one of the displays, then pressed her face against the glass. Every so often, she would take a step back, murmur something to herself, shake her head, then press her face against the glass again. After the fifth time, I glanced at her mother.

"It's serious business," the woman said. I giggled despite myself. Catherine looked at me, an adorable pout already forming.

"Have you chosen something, Kitty Cat?" I asked, hoping to distract her. It seemed to work, as her face screwed up in thought. After a few moments, she gave a hesitant nod. "Are you sure?" She nodded again, this time with more confidence.

"That one," said Catherine. She pointed to a chocolate éclair.

"An excellent choice, madam," I said, provoking the titters of the peanut gallery, "and what will Mommy be having?"

"A plaisir sucré," said Catherine. She pronounced the words with some uncertainty as if the sounds were themselves an exotic food gracing her tongue for the first time. I accepted her payment and gave her her order. She held the plates as though they were saucers filled with milk for the queen of cats and carefully made her way back to the table. She placed the plates on the table and let out a happy squeal of victory. As she sat down to the cheers of her beaming mother, I let out the breath I didn't realize I had been holding. Serious business? There's nothing more serious than a young girl saying "let me do it myself."

###

"I'm just saying that if President Walken isn't secretly a parahuman, how do you explain his freaky eyes in this picture, huh?" said Jack. His wild gesticulation made it difficult to make out the so-called freaky eyes he was offering as proof.

The lunch rush was over. The only people left in the tea house were the regulars, and they had long since gotten used to Jack. He was a sweet kid, starting his freshman year during my senior year at Arcadia. He was like a cross between a puppy and the editor of the National Inquirer—which sounds like the perfect National Inquirer headline—all guileless credulity and bright eyes.

"Jackie, if Walken was a cape, don't you think somebody would've noticed by now?" said Mary, the girl working the counter in the salon. "You need to think before open that mouth of yours, hun."

"Remind me why you aren't in school, Jack," I said. Jack had a tendency to wander when left to his own devices, and I was worried he had come here instead of going to class.

"Free period," said Jack.

"And you're definitely not cutting?" His face was the picture of shocked innocence, as though it had never even occurred to him that skipping class was a thing people did. Of course, I knew from personal experience not to trust a face on innocence alone. I may not have written the book on acting innocent, but I at least wrote the foreword for the latest edition.

Two women in their mid-20s entered the patisserie. The taller of the two wore white jeans and a salmon colored chiffon sweater. Her honey blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Her auburn companion wore black shorts and a white blouse with black polka dots. I let them browse for a few minutes before coming to play the diligent shopkeep.

"Can I help you with anything?" I asked.

"I was in here last week, and I fell in love with your chocolate bread. We were wondering if you did events," replied the auburn-haired woman.

Technically, the answer to that question was a resounding "no." Until that moment, I hadn't even considered the possibility, but I nevertheless found myself hesitating to just walk away from a potentially massive order.

Deciding the best course of action would be to hedge my bets, I said, "What kind of scale are we talking here?"

"There'll be around 300 guests at the wedding," she said.

"It'll be in June," added the blonde's soft voice, her voice quavering as it hit that final vowel.

Oh my gosh. To all outward appearances, I maintained my perfectly crafted façade of professionalism. Internally, however, I was squealing like a person who had a particularly good reason to be squealing. I had never managed to hit that growth spurt mom said would be coming any day now or rid myself of my cutesy looks, so whenever I encountered another woman who was similarly afflicted with the curse of perpetual adorableness, I inevitably found myself filled with glee. For all this woman's chic fashion sense and statuesque beauty, she had the nervous disposition of a ten-year-old. Hang on, did she say—

"Wedding?" I asked, fighting back a grin as I looked between the two women. They were family! I wondered if they'd join my book club, before realizing that I'd have to actually start a book club first.

"Yes, my dear sister Abigail is settling down," said the smaller woman, gesturing to her companion, who waved. Oh, that kind of family.

"Congratulations," I said to Abigail. The Amazon smiled weakly. "I think that should be manageable, but I'll have to confirm that this doesn't conflict with any pre-existing obligations. If you give me your contact details, we can call you and arrange a tasting. For now, could I perhaps tempt you with more of our pain au chocolat?"

###

"What are we going to do, Ruth?" I felt guilty for phoning my manager, Ruth, and asking her to come in on her day off, but this wasn't a decision I could make on my own. Ruth was my manager because I knew I didn't have a head for things like this, and it's her livelihood at stake, too.

"That depends on whether or not we can provide enough cakes"—Ruth paused to take a long sip of her tea—"and pastries for 300 people in addition to the inventory required for the store."

"We could close the store on the day." I frowned. Closing the story could hurt us, but it would be better than disappointing both sets of customers.

"I don't think that would be necessary. Our main bottleneck isn't pastry output." Ruth was now hunched over her tablet, her horn-rimmed glasses coming dangerously close to falling off her face. "Looking at previous June sales figures, we could expect to see around 350 pastries sold per day. How many éclairs could you make at once?"

"Our oven's capacity is around 500. Filling them all would be annoying, but that's why God invented apprentices," I said.

"Be that as it may, we should be able to handle the load provided all the girls come in that day."

"So how many cakes and pastries will we need to prepare? I have no experience with catering."

Ruth ignored me and poured herself another cup of tea. Once the tea was deemed good enough to no longer demand her full attention, she answered, "Let's say around five items per person at $20 a head. 300 guests, so that's 1500 pastries and cakes for $6000." I stared wide-eyed at Ruth, who sipped calmly at her drink. "That's just for a simple dessert table. If they want something fancier, we can adjust the price to match."

"You mean we finally have a way for this bakery to start making some real dough?"

Ruth groaned, the traditional response to great puns. "Why do I put up—" A klaxon sounded from my cell phone, interrupting what I'm sure was yet another deeply flawed rant about my sense of humor and subsequent worth as a human being. Ruth sighed and said, "Go ahead." I smiled apologetically and turned my attention my phone.

I had received a news alert about one of my watched terms. I opened the news feed app and felt the blood drain from my face. An image of a burning skyscraping filled the screen. At the bottom of the screen were the words "Blink in death-defying rescue." The image turned to video shot from a cell phone. The footage showed Blink saving a person—I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman—who had apparently thrown themselves out of a window in an attempt to escape the flames. Blink appeared and grabbed the freefalling figure. My breath caught in my throat as I watched the two hurtle towards the ground. After what felt like an eternity, the two figures the vanished from the screen, leaving the image of the towering inferno to burn itself into my memory.

My throat felt like it was constricting. I couldn't hear much over the sound of my pounding heart. I scrolled through my contact list until I came to Taylor's name. After a few misses, my shaking hands managed to place a call. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. She answered on the first ring.

"I'm fine, honey," said Taylor.

"I know, I know. I just"—I took a deep breath and tried to collect myself—"I just needed to hear your voice." I felt like a massive weight had been lifted thanks to those three little words.

"And so hear it you shall." I listened as Taylor told me about her day. The more she spoke, the more my heart rate calmed.

Once my heart was under control again, I said, "Don't you have to give a report or something?"

"That can wait. Right now, I'm here for as long as you need me."

"I wish you were here. Why did I give Ruth the office?"

"Because she'd use it for things other than secret rendezvous with your cape lover."

I giggled. "Calling it a secret rendezvous makes me feel like we're back in high school, stealing kisses behind the bike shed." I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. "I should probably get back to work. It looks like we'll be getting a $6000 order."

Taylor said, "That's fantastic. I am so proud of you. We're definitely talking about this tonight."

"Ok. Love you."

"Love you, too."

I hung up and looked at Ruth. "Let's get back to business."

###

The bakery's official closing time was 4 PM, but on most days, I liked to give the customers a little extra time to finish up. That plus the housekeeping—literal and figurative—that needed to be done usually meant I left work at 5. Today, however, I left that in Ruth's hands; my hands had better things to do.

I listened to the radio on my drive home from work. I sang along as best I could, belting out half-remembered words to some power ballad. I was nearly at my apartment building when my cell chimed, alerting me to a new message's arrival. It could wait—Taylor would kill me if she knew I was texting while driving.

I pulled into my park and rode the elevator up to the 14th floor. The elevator wasn't the most responsive, so I used the wait as an opportunity to read the text I had received. It was short, just three words long.

Taylor: _can't cook tonight_

"Damn it, Taylor," I muttered to myself. I knew it wasn't fair. My day had almost been ruined by watching her risk her life; I couldn't imagine how she must have been feeling. Still, I wished she'd told me earlier. Empathy doesn't put food on the table.

I let myself into our shared apartment and called out, "Honey, I'm house." It was a silly ritual we had whenever one of us came home. We had been doing it for so long, that I could no longer remember why we intentionally flubbed the line.

"Welcome home," said Taylor from the door to our bedroom. The smile on her face was warm and gentle, like a litter of puppies. Her eyes, on the other hand, were tired, like a puppy that had just rescued a man from a burning building. She held her arms open, and I melted into them. I closed my eyes and let the sound of her heartbeat drown out everything else. When I eventually opened my eyes, we were no longer in our apartment.

My first clue was the lack of light. The only source of light was a candle burning on a small table. The candle's only companions were a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. I twirled around, taking in the scenery. We were standing on a cliff overlooking an inlet. The air was still and smelled of salt, and I wondered how far the nearest settlement was.

My phone chimed again. I opened the message and chuckled.

Taylor: _let's eat out instead_

I wrapped my arms around Taylor's neck and pulled her down for a toe-curling kiss. After the fireworks had cleared, I looked her in the eyes and said, "I love you, Taylor Hebert."

AN: So that's the first chapter. I hadn't intended to publish this for quite some time, but it turns out instant gratification feels really good in the moment. If you're wondering how the hell Madison and Taylor ended up together, that will be answered in due time.

I am indebted to the users of the Cauldron Discord server, particularly Nihilistic Janitor, somnolentSlumber, and LacePrisonQueen.


	2. Chapter 2

"I hate you, Taylor Hebert," I said, packing as much venom into the five words as possible. It wasn't much—it's hard to muster up hatred when summer vacation is about to start. I glanced at Emma and saw her nod almost imperceptibly. I shot her a brief grin and ran to Winslow's main entrance. It was time to put Taylor Hebert and Winslow out of my mind forever, or at least until September.

Julia was waiting out front. She lived a few doors down from me, so we'd walked home together most days since middle school. We had been in the same class since the third grade, but neither one of us had realized we lived so close to each other until the seventh.

Talking to Julia was a balancing act. I wasn't as boy-crazy as she was, so I never had anything to contribute when the subject inevitably turned to whichever random beefcake had caught Julia's eye that day. On the other hand, she could be counted on to provide more than her fair share of laughs, as long as I could keep her mind from wandering too far. I wasn't feeling up to reigning her in, so I resigned myself to 10 minutes of boy talk and forced smiles.

"So what are you doing over the summer?" asked Julia. She was bouncing way too much for somebody just wanting to know what her friend's plans are. Hell, she was probably bouncing way too much for anyone.

"Um—"

"I'm going to stay at my aunt's house in LA. She's going to Hawaii, so I'm going to housesit for her."

"Alone?" I asked.

"Huh?"

"Will you be all by yourself?" Julia had only just turned 15; the thought of her being alone in a strange city made my stomach clench.

"No, I'll be babysitting my mom, too. Anyway, remember that guy I told you about? The one who won me that stuffed panda when I went to Santa Monica?"

"Not r—"

"I've been talking to him online, and I think we're maybe sort of dating?" She furrowed her brow. "No, we're definitely dating."

"I hope he knows that," I muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said 'I hope he knows that.'" Oh god, why did I repeat myself?

Julia laughed and bumped my hip. "You're such a bitch, Maddie. Anyway, we're going to meet up while I'm in California."

"Are you sure it's safe? What if he's really Heartbreaker or something?"

"California is nowhere near Quebec. God, you sound like my mom. Well if you hate my summer plans so much, what are you doing?"

What was I doing? Or, more accurately, what could I tell her I would be doing? I was going to have my very first job over the summer, but I was terrified of messing up and embarrassing myself, so I hadn't told any of my friends about it. What's a plausible lie?

"Making sure Allie is ready for middle school. What kind of big sister would I be if I left her to the wolves?"

"Mine. Can you believe Kennedy didn't want anything to do with me this year? Unbelievable."

"Julia, Kennedy is in college."

Julia harrumphed. "You always take her side."

We chatted some more before we reached my house. I hugged her goodbye for the summer and promised that I wouldn't become a recluse. I walked in through the front door and took my shoes off, placing my flats next to Allie's haphazardly thrown sneakers.

"I'm home!" I said.

"About time!" came my sister's response. "Come here, Maddie; I need your help."

I went into the den and flopped onto the couch beside her. "What do you want?"

"I'm stuck on this star," said Allison. We were playing through Mario 64 together. The villains Über and Leet had started to record and upload their capers online. Allie and I had become fans of the show; sure, they were little more than 8-bit crooks, but it was hard not to root for them when their plans blew up in their faces. Dad had seen us watching and pulled out his old Nintendo 64, so we would get their references.

We took turns controlling Mario, trading whenever one of us died or got a star. After an hour of play, Mom came in and told me I had a phone call. I took the phone into my bedroom, wondering who I knew that wouldn't just call my cell.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello, is that Madison? This is Miriam Goldstein from the Busy Bee. You were scheduled to start work here on Monday?"

"Is there a problem?" I wondered if it was possible to be fired from a job before you had even started.

"No. Well, yes, but not with you. I was wondering if you could come in Sunday instead?"

"Of course," I answered automatically. "What time do you need me?"

"Be here at 11:45. I need to go over a few things with you before you start your shift."

"I'll be there with bells on."

"Clothes will suffice. Goodbye, Miss Clements."

I ran downstairs to put the phone in its dock. Mom scolded me for running indoors.

"Sorry, Mom." I began to walk away, then stopped and turned to face Mom. "That was Mrs. Goldstein. She asked if I could start Sunday instead of next week." I took in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. "Canyougivemealifttowork?"

Mom cocked an eyebrow. "You want to run that one by me again? Slower this time," she said.

"Can you give me a lift to work?"

She stared me dead in the eyes without blinking for at least thirty seconds. Luckily for me, that just makes it easier to give her puppy dog eyes. Finally, she sighed. "What time do you start?"

My face broke into a grin. "Mrs. Goldstein told me to be there at 11:45."

Mom turned her attention back to the stove. "I should really make you ride your bike."

"Yeah, but you won't because I'm your favorite."

"Hey!" Allie had wandered into the kitchen in time to hear me. "I thought I was your favorite," she said as she looked through the fridge.

"Allison June Clements, don't even think about eating. Dinner will be ready soon, and I don't want you to ruin your appetite." Allie closed the fridge and pressed her back against it. Mom had an uncanny ability to sense when one of us was going to 'spoil our appetite.' We had a theory that she was a cape. "Neither one of you is my favorite."

"You mean you hate both of us?" I said with mock horror.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" asked Mom.

"Well, maybe just say if you hate Allie." Allie cried out in indignation. I ruffled her hair. "I didn't say I hated you, Alleycat. I'm much more reasonable than Mom."

"I guess that means I'm not driving you to work Sunday, seeing as how I'm so unreasonable." This time, the cry of indignation was my own. Mom laughed. "Don't worry, Madison. I'll still give you a lift, but you have to clean the car tomorrow. Does that sound reasonable to you, Allie?"

"Very," said my traitorous sister. Two can play at that game.

"That sounds like a two-woman job. Can I get Allie to help?"

"That's fine with me," said Mom.

"Great," I said, then ran off before Allie could object. I needed to prepare my outfit for Sunday.

###

Ten minutes. I had been sitting in the car waiting for Mom for ten minutes. If we were somewhere other than Maine, I could have died in ten minutes. Fortunately, the only thing I stood to die from was boredom; there was only so many times I could adjust my hairpins without it sending me insane.

"Maybe they'll call me 'Mad Mad,'" I said to nobody. I almost jumped out of my skin when nobody answered.

"Talking to yourself, Mad Mad? I guess the name fits," said Mom.

"Jesus, Mom, you almost gave me a heart attack."

"Are you ready to go?" asked Mom. I stared incredulously at Mom. "Relax, I was joking." I continued to stare until she started the car. "Nervous about your first day?"

"I can do this," I said, as much to myself as to Mom.

"Of course you can, sweetie. I believe in you, and I'm sure your friends do, too."

"I'm sure they don't. They'd have to know about it, first, and I haven't told them."

"Why not?"

"What if I mess up?" I mumbled into my hands. Mom made a show of cupping her ear, and I sighed. "What if I mess up?" I repeated, louder this time. "I've never had a job before; what if I make a huge mistake and ruin Mrs. Goldstein's bakery? It's a bakery, Mom; I could literally end up with egg on my face."

"I'm sure your friends would be supportive."

"Maybe things were different when you went to high school, back when everyone was more concerned about the British burning down the White House, but these days, if the sharks smell blood in the water, they'll bite. No remorse, stone-cold killers."

"And these girls are your friends?"

"They're still vultures."

"I thought they were sharks," said Mom. "Don't use two metaphors; it's bad writing."

"They're flying robot sharks that shoot lasers. It doesn't matter!"

Mom reached over and rubbed my back. "Relax, honey. If you don't want to tell your friends, you don't have to," she said as we pulled up to the Busy Bee. "Madison, look at me." I turned to face her. "I'm proud of you. I'm sure you'll do great, but even if you do mess up, I'll still be proud of you."

I leaned over and wrapped Mom in the biggest hug I'd ever given. "Thanks, Mom," I whispered in her ear. Breaking our embrace, I climbed out of the car. My reflection stared out at me from the bakery's plate glass window. We gave each other a quick once-over and nodded approvingly. I was wearing a cobalt blue skirt with a ring of tulips circling the bottom and a turquoise blouse. The blouse was thanks to Emma. Her plans with Sophia had been scuffed by some emergency track meeting, so she dragged me down to the boardwalk to watch her model outfit after outfit. I didn't really mind; she was a naturally talented model, and she somehow made staring at her for hours incredibly engaging. It was during Emma's impromptu fashion show that I saw the blouse and promptly fell in love with it. Emma had discarded it for not complimenting her more generous figure, but it looked great on me.

I shook my head and entered my new workplace. Mrs. Goldstein, a middle-aged woman with straw-colored hair in tight curls, was serving a customer, so I waited for her to finish while looking at a display filled with a bewildering array of tarts. She put the customer's order in a box and sent him on his way.

"Mrs. Goldstein?" I said, hating myself for the questioning tone. I already knew who she was; we had met when I handed in my application.

"You're here," said Mrs. Goldstein. She had a matter-of-fact way of speaking that made gauging her thoughts difficult. "Come into my office."

Mrs. Goldstein went over my various duties as a Busy Bee worker. I immediately noticed a common theme: washing dishes, mopping floors, taking out the trash… At least ninety percent of my job would consist of cleaning. If the demand overwhelmed whoever was working the register, I could help out with the customers, but most of the time, I'd be stuck doing the least glamorous jobs.

Mrs. Goldstein left me to sign a few papers while she handled some problem in the kitchen. When she hadn't returned after five minutes, I decided to look for her. I walked into the kitchen and came face-to-face with the last person I was expecting.

"Taylor? What the hell are you doing here?"

AN: This is the first "flashback" chapter. Going forward, the story will alternate between future and past chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

They say that silence is golden. Sometimes, it's more of a gilded cage. Our very first gig as dessert caterers was that afternoon, and I was terrified that we wouldn't have enough time to prepare. My fear was so palpable that I called Claire at 11 last night and demanded she come in and assist. We had been working non-stop for three hours, and the oppressive silence was weighing on me.

"This is ridiculous," I said. "Usually, we're chatting and joking while working."

"Usually, you haven't called me into work five hours before my shift starts. Sorry that I'm not sufficiently entertaining."

I sighed. She was right. Of course, she was right. If making her come in to assuage my fears put me firmly in terrible boss territory, expecting her to make me feel comfortable at the same time was like running for public office. Maybe not as the governor or a mayor, but I was definitely up for a seat on a school board.

"I don't know if this is even possible, but I somehow feel like the smallest person in the world as well as the biggest asshole."

She didn't say anything, but she did crack a smile. It was barely deserving of the word, but I'd take whatever victories I could find.

After another fifteen minutes of silence, Claire said, "Did you watch the first episode of that new show on HBO last night?"

"No."

"You should check it out; it's wonderful" She waited for a few beats then said, "Do you want me to grab another bag of sugar? The bin is running low."

"I can get it. You put this batch of cream puffs in the oven." I grabbed a huge bag of sugar and schlepped it across the kitchen. "What's the show about?"

"Two childhood friends running rival gangs. William Fichtner is the lead."

"Who?"

"He was in that show about breaking out of the Birdcage."

"Could you get more eggs and cream? I need to make more of this filling," I said.

"Okay."

"Wasn't Wentworth Miller in that?"

"Yeah, but I'm not talking about him." Claire's voice was muffled slightly by the industrial fridge's thick walls. "I'm talking about the PRT guy who tries to catch him." She brought out the eggs and cream and put them into the floor-mounted mixer.

I poured in flour and sugar and activated the mixer. "Are you sure Wentworth Miller isn't on this show?"

"Positive."

"I think we should take a moment to reflect on the implausibility of the name 'Wentworth Miller,'" I said.

"Let me know when you're done making fun of the man; I'd like to get back to what I was talking about."

"I'll be good."

"Okay." Claire carried a tray of éclairs into the fridge. "So, William Fichtner is this big time gang boss. I don't know if he's a cape, but all his capos have powers."

"Capo?"

"Gangster lieutenants."

"Look at you, Ms. I-Know-Mafia-Terms. You're not hiding a villainous past from me, are you?"

"Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do," said Claire, affecting a ridiculously cheesy movie gangster voice. "Capisce?"

I grinned. "So what does this show have besides William Fichtner and gangsters?"

"There's this one scene where William Fichtner is talking to his lackeys in his penthouse suite. The camera moves past him, through the window and across the street to Gabriel Byrne's—"

"Gabriel Byrne?"

"He's the rival boss. Anyway, the camera moves into his office across the street, and the scene continues over there. All of this without a single cut. There has to be a rogue working on the show."

"What was it called?"

"Sodom and Gomorrah. I don't know why it's called that, but the first episode aired an hour before you called me in." She shrugged.

"Sorry about that."

"I'm over it, but I'd still better get a great performance review."

"We don't do performance reviews."

"Well, there goes my one incentive for not slacking at work."

We continued bantering while we worked on the wedding order and the bakery's daily selection.

As the hours dragged on, and we gradually ran out of the usual conversation topics, we found ourselves forced into more unusual fare.

"I'm telling you, E.T. is a metaphor for Scion. People don't like talking about it because, you know, pchoo"—Claire mimed an explosion with her hands—"but it makes perfect sense."

"You're going to have to explain this one to me."

"Okay, so you've got this weird alien dude who just appears one day and is all glowy and heals a bunch of people. And after he appears, these kids can suddenly fly? Yeah, nice try, Spielberg. We all know what the movie was really about."

I had a vague feeling that E.T. predated Scion, but I didn't really know what was happening and she sounded so confident. In the end, I just kind of agreed with her and let the conversation move on.

We were putting the final batch of tarts into the fridge when Ruth arrived.

Ruth stared at the fruits of our labor. "What happened to the plan, Madison? You were supposed to bake throughout the day."

"I may have panicked and subsequently mismanaged our time," I said.

"Poor Claire looks dead on her feet."

"I'm fine." Claire's eyes were bloodshot and slightly unfocused. She was swaying very gently.

"If I opened a window, the breeze would probably knock you down."

I ran my fingers through my hair. "I hate to agree with Ruth, but you do look awful"—Claire opened her mouth to interject—"and I know that I probably look worse. We should both get some shut-eye."

Ruth grabbed my arm as I was walking to the door. "I know you wanted to make the delivery yourself, but this is too big to get wrong. If you're not back by 12:30, I'm sending one of the girls in your stead."

I nodded and left. The drive home was uneventful. Once I got there, I shambled into the bedroom and fell face forward onto the bed. Sleep called to me. I welcomed it like an old friend.

###

I didn't make it back on time. My disappointment over missing the delivery was tempered by Ruth's assurances that it was a success in all other regards.

"I just wish I could have seen their faces" It was tempered, not eradicated.

"We get it," said Mary.

"Hell, we got it before you; we were awake for the delivery," said Meadow, acclaimed deliverer of pastries.

I groaned and sank deeper into the chair. "Aren't we supposed to be celebrating? All you've done so far is make me more miserable."

"Fire them all and replace them with obsequious toadies, honey." Taylor walked into the tea room carrying a pile of vinyl records. "I found Mrs. Goldstein's old collection. Does the gramophone still work?" When we purchased The Busy Bee from her, she had only two requests: we never open on Saturday, and we keep the gramophone on display.

"There's only one way to find out." I took the top disc from the pile and put it on. Fred Astaire's unassuming voice filled the tea room.

My beloved caressed my jaw and smiled. "It's a crime to listen to _Cheek to Cheek_ without dancing." Taking my hand, she pulled me into the area formerly occupied by tables. I couldn't manage cheek to cheek, so I settled for leaning against her shoulder and gazing up at her. We held each other and swayed like we were still awkward teenagers.

"You're beautiful," I whispered, enraptured by her inner glow.

She blushed and turned away. My heart clenched. Despite years of affirmations, she had never managed to shake the feelings of inadequacy brought on by our adolescent cruelty. She wasn't a pageant queen, but conventional attractiveness offered such a limited perspective of beauty. It left no space to appreciate things like _joie de vivre_ or a caustic wit.

I sang along with Fred Astaire. My approach to singing was to aim for the general vicinity of the right note and hope for the best. What I lacked in technical ability, I more than made up for in moxie. A sudden stray thought had me in a fit of giggles.

"What?" asked Taylor.

"I just realized that if I'm singing Fred Astaire's part, you'd be Ginger Rogers. It's not really all that funny; it was just unexpected." The music faded, and I excused myself to acquire a drink.

I sipped my glass of orange juice and surveyed the room. The close of business had turned into an impromptu celebration, with workers mingling with the remaining customers. Mary and her boyfriend, Sean, were talking to a pair of yuppies who could have walked right off the set of _Wall Street_. Taylor, who didn't know anyone besides Ruth and me, had latched onto her the moment I left. Meadow was dancing with some random teenybopper. Of the customers who weren't at that moment engaged in some fashion with one of my employees, only two were alone. Mr. Jones, who liked to pretend to be curmudgeonly, and a waif in a hoody. She had been playing with a slice of Saint Honoré's cake for the better part of twenty minutes. There was something vaguely familiar about the girl, but I couldn't place it.

At around 6:30, I called for the music to be turned down.

"I just want to thank you all for being here. Patrons and staff, this place wouldn't be possible without you." I paused to a smattering of applause. Is it weird to applaud yourself? "The Busy Bee is incredibly important to me. I wouldn't have become the woman I am today without it. It gave me my livelihood and my wonderful wife. So, you know, thanks."

Taylor hugged me fiercely and said, "When it comes time to hand out awards for the greatest orators of all time, I'm sure you'll get a ribbon for participation."

"Shut up and kiss me."


	4. Chapter 4

Three hours may not seem like much, but a girl can learn a lot in that time. I, for example, had learned that our so-called civilization was built on a tissue of lies. I had spent the first three hours of my new life as a wage slave cleaning up after wild animals, presumably as a reminder that we live in a cruel and fundamentally unjust universe, and was now being sent to deal with the beasts directly.

"Welcome to the Busy Bee. What can I get you?"

"A Whoopie Pie, " said the customer, a man in a sharp suit who was doing a convincing impression of a walking stick. My giggle fit at the ensuing mental image was met with a questioning look from the man.

"I just remembered something funny from _Citizen Kane_ ," I said as I handed over his tasty treat.

"That may have worked on him, but don't think you can fool me," said Stacey, my fellow worker bee, once he was out of earshot.

"I was imagining him as a walking stick."

Stacey groaned. "Is this the sort of thing I can expect from you? Bad puns and insults hurled at the customers?"

"Not just the customers."

"Can I get a slice of chocolate cake?" asked a twentysomething wearing a Companion Cube t-shirt.

"I'm sorry, but the cake is a lie."

"What?"

"It's a _Portal_ reference." Seeing his blank face, I added, "The video game? You're wearing a _Portal_ shirt."

"I stole this from my dormmate. It's laundry day."

"Oh." We stared at each other for a month's worth of awkwardness compressed into ten seconds.

"Here's your cake, sir," said Stacey, rescuing me from myself.

"There ought to be a law against wearing shirts if you don't get the reference," I muttered under my breath.

"I'm not gonna lie, that was the most pitiful attempt to talk to a boy I've seen since the Fairground Fiasco of '08." Stacey put her arm around my shoulder. Her tone and mannerisms reminded me of the way I sometimes spoke to Allison, especially when I wanted to annoy her. "Maybe you should leave the college boys for someone with a little more experience. I mean, I can't blame you for trying something. Did you see his abs? You could probably bounce a quarter off them."

"Huh?" Okay, that last part wasn't something I'd say to Allie. I guess he was cute if you're into square jaws and huge biceps. I just wanted to talk about _Portal_. The sequel would be coming out ne—

"And who knew little Madison was a closet geek?"

"What? I'm not a geek."

"It's okay to come out, Madison. Admitting you're a geek is the first step to recovery."

"I'm really not a geek; I just like video games. My little sister and I started watching Über and Leet's stream—"

I was interrupted by the sound of metal crashing against the tiled floor. Taylor stood at the threshold to the kitchen, an empty baking tray lying at her feet. Her face had turned bright pink, and she mumbled a bashful apology.

"So you like capes? Or do bad boys get your motor running?"

"Is this what having a big sister is like? I really should thank my parents for practicing birth control."

Stacey laughed. "So, Über and Leet?"

I shrugged. "They're funny, and they aren't, like, Hookwolf bad, y'know?"

"How would we know? Maybe they're worse, but nobody knows on account of the whole gross incompetence thing."

"They aren't incompetent." I paused. "Well, not grossly incompetent."

"Sorry for insulting your favorite capes."

"I wouldn't exactly call them my favorites."

"So who is?"

"I've never really thought about it. Alexandria, I guess. Who do you like?"

"Local or anywhere?"

"Anywhere."

"Either way, my answer's Battery. Other capes might be more powerful, but none of them feels like they really care about the community, you know? Battery's different. I'm a Girl Scout Ambassador. She always makes time for our troop. That means a lot to me." Stacey turned towards Amanda, who was carrying a trayful of donuts from the kitchen, and said, "Hey Mandy, who's your favorite cape?"

"Laserdream. She's been my favorite ever since I found out she was a cape. I probably would have failed 6th-grade math without her," said Amanda.

"A cape tutoring some brainless schmuck? That'll be the day."

"Actually, she let me copy her answers, so there." Amanda poked her tongue out at Stacey, who focused her attention on the customer she was serving.

"You know Laserdream?" I asked.

"She was just Crystal back then."

"Even so, it's weird."

"What's weird?" said Stacey.

"To think of capes as real people."

"Of course they're real people."

"I know, but they've always felt larger than life. It's just, you know, weird that Alexandria might be a scrapbooker."

"Probably not. She has an eidetic memory," said Taylor. Had she been there the whole time? "That means she-"

"I know what it means," I said. "I'm not an idiot."

After about ten seconds, Stacey said, "I wonder if lampshading an awkward silence does anything to alleviate the awkwardness." We all stared at her. "Turns out it doesn't."

Amanda cleared her throat. "So, who's your favorite cape, Taylor?"

"Alexandria. When we were kids, my best friend and I would pretend to be capes. I was always Alexandria," said Taylor, her voice hitching a little when she said the f-word.

"Oh, hey! You've got something in common with Madison," said Stacey.

"I'm not so sure. You were pretty persuasive about Battery." I smiled at the newest arrival, a woman in a power suit that made her look like an extra in _Wall Street_. "Welcome to the Busy Bee, ma'am. How can I help you?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stacey staring at me. Did I say something wrong?

Two girls entered the bakery. Recognizing the prettier of the two from my French class, I decided it was high time I made like a tree and got out of there. I shouted something about taking my government mandated fifteen-minute break and ran out the back, only to find myself face-to-face with Taylor.

"Taylor!" I said in a way that was decidedly unsqueaklike. If anything, I did the opposite: a kaeuqs. "What are you doing out here?"

"What am I doing out here? What are you doing out here? I thought you'd be jumping at the chance to treat your fellow minions to your employee discount."

"At least I have friends to avoid."

Almost instantly, she seemed to deflate. "I wish I didn't," she said. Her voice was almost too quiet for me to hear; maybe I wasn't meant to. She started walking towards the door.

"Taylor, wait." She stopped and looked at me. Had her eyes always been that lifeless?

"Do we really get an employee discount?" She sighed and trudged back inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

As promised, Mom picked me up at the end of my shift. As soon as my seatbelt was buckled, she asked me how my first day went.

"I am no longer the naive girl you once knew. She is dead; her spirit crushed and remolded by forces far beyond mortal understanding. Market forces. I am now a cog in the massive capitalist machine."

"That's nice, dear. Can cogs eat at Fugly Bob's, or will we have to give your dinner to Allison?"

"You can't do that! If anything, cogs need twice as much as their little sisters, especially the ones who haven't worked a day in their lives."

Mom laughed. "Okay, honey."

"Mom, what does 'eidetic' mean?"

###

"We need to talk," said Mom.

"In a minute." Allie and I were playing _Metal Gear Solid_. We had gotten to the first boss fight against Revolver Ocelot, and I was finally having a good run.

"Now, Madison."

I sighed and handed Allie the controller. "Don't mess this up, Alleycat." I followed Mom out of the den. As soon as we were out of the room, I heard the telltale sounds of the C4 being set off.

"I just read your report card." Oh. "Judging from the look on your face, I think you know where this is going. Three Cs and a D." She looked at me, clearly expecting me to play my part.

"I don't know how things worked when you were a kid, but these days, we call that passing."

Mom folded her arms. "Stop kidding around. In middle school, you got As and Bs."

"In middle school, the work was easier." Mom opened her mouth to speak, but I just kept going. "What do you want me to say? That I'll try harder next year? I tried my hardest this year, Mom. You've seen how that turned out."

"Maybe the problem isn't how hard you're trying, but how smart you're trying."

"Great, now you're calling me dumb, too."

Mom wrapped her arms around and squeezed me in one of those hugs that all moms seemed to know—the type that feels like breakfast in bed on a Saturday morning. "Oh honey, of course, you're not dumb. I meant that maybe your learning strategy isn't right for you." She pulled back and looked me in the eye. "I know you can do better than this."

"I'm never going to be a Rhodes Scholar. At best, I might be a Rhode Island Scholar."

"Honestly, I think I'd prefer your made-up scholarship to the real thing. Being a Rhodes Scholar means studying in England."

"Huh. I'd never really thought about what it actually meant. In my head, it's just been something they say about smart people in movies."

"Anyway, we're going to work on developing a plan that works for you over the summer."

"Maddie!" said Allie.

"Don't shout when Mom's around!" Mom was unimpressed, so I added, "Or when she isn't around!" I gave Mom my winningest smile.

"I don't know why I bother."

I ran back into the den and dove onto Allison.

"Get off, Maddie."

"Not until you say the magic word."

"Mom!"

"And there it is." I rolled onto the spot next to her on the sofa bed. "What's the sitch?"

"This robot ninja came and chopped off Revolver Ocelot's hand, and the old guy strapped to the bomb told me to call the Colonel's niece before he had a heart attack and died."

"So call her."

"He said her number is on the back of the CD case. He gave us an optical disc, but I can't work out how to look at the back of it."

"We can try to solve the puzzle, or we can find our own solution."

"What do you mean?"

"We could just go through all the numbers until we find the right one."

"Isn't that cheating?" asked Allison, her childish innocence not yet crushed by middle school.

I said, "I prefer to think of it as creative problem-solving." Allison's face scrunched up at this. "I tell you what. Why don't we keep trying for now? We can always choose to do it my way later."

She smiled at me brightly. "Okay." She handed me the controller. "You take over."

"Gee, thanks."

As Solid Snake infiltrated the Shadow Moses Island military base on-screen, from next to me, Allison said, "So, I've been hanging out with Mike a lot recently. I really like him." Mike was our thirteen-year-old neighbor.

"I like him, too; he's a good kid."

"No, I mean I like him."

"Oh. Oooooooh. Oh! You can't date him. He's too old for you."

"I'm two months older."

"Then he's too immature."

"What would you have said if somebody said that about your first crush."

"What?" I was so put off by Allison's question, that I almost walked right into a trap in the game. I paused the game and put the controller down. Then, my face aflame and my voice small, I said, "I haven't had a crush on anyone, yet."

"Huh? But you're two years older than me."

"I know." I started fiddling with the _Metal Gear Solid_ case. "I think I'm just a late bloomer. That's what Mom always says."

"I think she's talking about your height."

"I know." Unable to meet Allison's gaze, I studied the case in my hands. After a while, I noticed something. "Holy hell!"

"What?" asked Allison.

I grabbed the controller and went into the codec screen and entered the frequency 140.15 and hit send. It connected to a woman in a balaclava.

"How the hell did you do that?"

"The game's case. Her number is on the back of the game's case."

Allison, my sweet sister, swore loudly. Her face was a mix of awe and disbelief. "What kind of game is this?"


	5. Chapter 5

I heard the sickening sound of flesh meeting pavement and felt my heart plummet. My stomach, however, was more than eager to take its place. My throat constricted and I choked on bile. Each breath I took was laborious. Nobody could have survived a fall from that height. Taylor, the light of my life, was dead. The world faded to black.

I sat bolt upright and found myself in a comfortable bed. I tried to look around, but it was dark, and my eyes refused to cooperate. As the fog of sleep cleared from my mind, I took stock of the situation. I was in my bedroom at home. The last thing I remembered was Taylor—Taylor! I reached out to her side of the bed. She was there, feeling soft and smelling faintly of the lavender-scented body wash I bought the other day. Her presence soothed me; I clung to her like the life preserver she was. My heart calmed, and I slowly drifted back to sleep.

When I woke up, it was to the sight of my wife's gently smiling face.

"Hello, Maddie," she said. "You know that I love when you turn into my little koala, but my bladder just doesn't agree. Could you let go so I can go to the bathroom?"

"Koalas all have chlamydia," I mumbled then froze as I realised what I had just said.

Taylor burst into laughter. "Okay, unless you want me to literally pee myself laughing, you need to let go now." I released her and threw the covers over my head. I felt her leaving the bed more through the sudden absence of her warmth than the mattress and sheets being disturbed. After an indeterminate amount of time, I heard my wife calling out, "Madison."

"Madison is gone. Do you want to leave a message?"

"Tell her that I'm making breakfast."

"No!" I said as I attempted to scramble out of bed and found myself on the floor in a tangled heap of limbs and linen, instead.

"Is my cooking really that bad?" Taylor laughed.

"Of course not. I just wanted to pamper you today." I looked up and gave her my best hangdog expression, hoping that it would persuade her to see reason.

She kneeled and kissed the tip of my nose. "Tell you what. Whoever can make it to the kitchen first gets to make breakfast. Agreed? Good," she said then blinked away before I could register what had happened.

"What? Blaggard! You're a cad and a bounder! A villainous cur. A rogue and a scoundrel whose treachery knows no bounds."

"And I'm making you breakfast, baby," came her voice from the kitchen. She teleported to me and quickly kissed the corner of my mouth. "Deal with it," she said before disappearing again, not quite fast enough to conceal her smug grin.

By the time I managed to untangle myself from the bedding and get myself looking somewhat presentable, the dish was already underway. From the looks of it, she was making scrambled eggs.

I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. Standing on the tips of my toes, I managed to kiss the nape of her neck. If Taylor bent her knees a little to help, neither of us mentioned it.

"You cheated," I said sotto voce.

"Funny, that doesn't sound like you dealing with it, but I know that couldn't be the case since I distinctly recall telling you to do exactly that."

"This is how I deal."

I looked around her and surveyed the stovetop. Taylor preferred to scramble her eggs in the American style: cooked in a sauteuse over direct heat. During my apprenticeship to a maître pâtissier in Paris, I was introduced to the gentler bain-marie style wherein the eggs are slowly cooked over a pot of boiling water. I loved how fine the curds were, but she always claimed the resulting dish was too sloppy, so I rarely made them. In addition to the eggs, she was sautéing chanterelle mushrooms in a second sauteuse and frying sausages in a sautoir. The delicate aroma of the mushrooms contrasted with the, well, beefy smell of the beef.

"So, I'm thinking of doing more catering," I said as I sat on a stool by the counter.

"Oh?"

"We made a tidy sum from the wedding order, and it was really nice to bake on that scale."

"It'd mean you'd have less time for the customer-facing sides of the business."

"The _salon de thé_ won't suffer for it. My sleep schedule might, but I'm willing to make that sacrifice."

"You know that I'll always support you. If you want to explore this, I'll be there for you. Heck, if you need more than moral support, I could even help out in the Busy Bee. It hasn't been so long since I worked there. I still remember a thing or two from those days."

"Like the time you used salt instead of sugar?"

"That was one time. Besides, it's not like you never made mistakes."

"I was practically perfect in every way."

Taylor blinked to the opposite side of the counter, leaned over, and whispered, "Tiramisu."

"I thought we all agreed that that never happened."

She laughed and mimed locking her mouth and throwing away the key. After she finished cooking, she served it with buttery toast and a cup of apricot tea, making a show of searching for the key and unlocking her mouth before eating.

"I've started reading _Wuthering Heights_ ," said Taylor when she was down to the last scraps of her meal.

I grasped her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "How are you holding up?"

"Better than I used to. I still miss her."

"I know, my heart."

My cell rang. The words "The Busy Bee" stared up at me reproachfully, as if it somehow disapproved of my decision to spend the day with my wife instead of working. I looked away from the judgmental phone and at Taylor entreatingly. She gave me a small half-smile and nodded. I answered the call and said, "This had better be an emergency." 30 seconds later, I turned back to Taylor and explained that I needed to go into work to find out which of my employees was losing her job.

###

It turned out that none of the workers would be losing their jobs, at least until we could determine who, if anyone, was to blame. It seemed that The Busy Bee had somehow come into possession of 50,000 free range chicken eggs. To put that in context, we usually use fewer than 5,000 in a week. It wasn't clear if the mistake was on our end or our supplier's. If it was the latter's mistake, we could be compensated accordingly, but we couldn't just assume they would deal with it in case it turned out to be our fault. If it was our fault, we'd need to come up with a plan to deal with the excess eggs, hence the odd meeting I found myself in at that moment. It consisted of me, Ruth, Claire, the girl working the counter, and a random teenager who happened to be in the _salon_ at the time.

"Ruth will look into the supplier's side. Right now, we need to come up with a plan for these eggs," I said. "What are some egg-heavy dishes?"

"Meringues," said Claire, my ever-dependable second in the kitchen.

"Meringues are popular, as are macarons," said Ruth. "The excess stock could sell very well."

"Meringues and macarons use egg whites. What about the yolks?"

A muffled noise came from somewhere within Nathalie's hoody.

"What was that, honey?"

"Custard."

"Custer?" asked Ruth.

"She said 'custard.' You're going to have to speak up a little; Ruth has gone deaf in her old age," I said. Ruth responded by throwing a balled-up napkin at me.

"You could, if you wanted to, make egg custard without whites. You don't have to, of course, but whenever we had extra yolks growing up, we'd use them to make a custard or a mousse. It's just a suggestion."

"Thank you, Nathalie. Any other suggestions?"

"Well," said Mary, "we are a bakery. Why don't we make French toast?"

"It's really more of a patisserie than a boulangerie."

"See, you already make it all Frenchy."

"Okay then. Well, thanks for all your contributions. Ruth, can I talk to you in private?" Ruth nodded and led me to her office. Once the door was closed, I asked, "What's the score? Is this going to work out?"

"I'll run the numbers and see what's financially viable, but I think we're still going to have way too many eggs leftover. Making extra cookies and cakes means we'd need to buy even more ingredients. Most of them won't be perishable, so they'll keep for a while, but it is a consideration. The more pressing concern is manpower. We need more bakers, and I don't know if we can afford them."

"Taylor was talking about helping out around here. She could get us over the hill."

"That's one extra set of hands that won't put us in the red, but it won't be enough," said Ruth.

"Apprentices are cheaper than masters. We could find one to be my lackey."

"I'll start making enquiries."

"Also, I wonder if we could get some local kids to blow out and decorate the eggs. You know, like old school Easter eggs?"

"Easter egg painting," she said while jotting it down in her notepad. "Got it. Anything else?"

"Yes." I stood and loomed over the desk as imperiously as I could manage. The effect was spoiled somewhat by my diminutive height and cherubic face, but I persisted nonetheless. "I want to know who messed up."

###

That night, I woke up in a cold sweat and turned to the reassuring presence of my wife.


	6. Chapter 6

"Popcorn?"

"Check."

"Blankets?"

"Check."

"Pillows?"

"Check."

"PJs?"

"Check."

"Most importantly, chocolate milk?"

"Check."

"Then I declare Sisters Night officially underway," I said before leaping onto my bed, narrowly missing an outraged Allison. "So, what are we watching, Alleycat?"

"Huh?" asked Allison as she hugged the popcorn bowl like a mama bear that was also hugging a popcorn bowl for some reason.

"What movie did you pick?"

"Me? You didn't pick a movie?"

"Obviously," I said. After a few seconds of Allie opening and closing her mouth without saying anything, I continued, "I was giving my darling sister a chance to prove her maturity."

That seemed to snap her out of it. "And what, I'm supposed to read your mind?" she asked. "You pick the movie, and I pick the snacks. That's how it's always been." Before I could respond, there came a knock on my door.

"Come in", I said. The door opened, revealing Mom.

"Sorry, girls, but I need to borrow Madison for a minute," she said.

"Okay, just make sure you don't scratch her," said Allison. I rolled out of bed and bounced to the door. As we were leaving, Allison added, "And make sure you fill the gas tank."

I turned back to her and said, "Just pick a movie."

"Don't blame me when you get stuck on I-295 with an empty tank."

I followed Mom into her office and looked around. Mom was a freelance editor who hated working with digital copies, so manuscripts were littered around the room. Most were organized in manila folders, but Mom's desk was covered in loose paper. Facing the door was a massive overstuffed armchair. On one side of it was a side table and on the other a packed bookcase. I flopped onto the armchair, my legs hanging over the armrest. Mom shook her head and sat in her fancy orthopedic office chair.

"What can I do for you?"

"It's been almost two weeks since we agreed to develop a summer study plan."

"Oh," I said.

"And so far, there has been very little progress in that department."

I sat up and hugged my knees. "What do you want?"

Mom sighed. "It's not about what I want, Madison. We're trying to find a plan that works for you."

"Well, what do you think will work best for me?"

"Getting you to think for yourself would be a start." We sat in silence until Mom got up and sat on the armchair beside me. She pulled my head down to her lap and combed her fingers through my hair. "Talk to me, Maddie."

"Allie and I used to think that was a treasure map," I said, pointing to a framed map of the Province of Massachusetts Bay above her desk.

"I remember. You kept trying to sneak in to steal it."

"We wanted to find the buried treasure." We both laughed. I looked up at Mom. "I miss those days. Things weren't so complicated."

"I know, Mad Mad," she said, causing my face to redden like an overripe tomato.

I turned to face the door. "I thought we agreed that was a terrible nickname."

"And you thought that meant I wasn't going to use it?"

Allison's voice called from my bedroom, "Hurry up, Maddie; the movie's starting."

Mom said, "Go."

"Love you." I practically flew to my bedroom and dove onto my bed.

"You need to stop doing that."

"My bed my rules. What are we watching?"

" _Sleepless in Seattle_."

"Ooh, a classic." I climbed under the blankets and took a swig of chocolate milk. "Wait, aren't we watching this on Netflix?"

"Yeah."

"So why did I have to rush back for the movie? Doesn't it start when we tell it to?"

"I got bored."

I giggled and threw a piece of popcorn at her, then turned my attention to the movie.

"It is."

"Nope."

"Yes. It. Is."

"Nope," said Amanda as she booped Stacey's nose.

"Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan are America's sweethearts."

"They're in the movie together for all of five seconds. That's not a relationship; that's a fantasy."

"Madison, tell this crazy lady that I'm right," said Stacey.

"This is between you two. Don't bring me into this," I said.

"You're the one who brought the movie up."

"You asked me what I did on the weekend. That's what I did on the weekend."

"A relationship is more than googly eyes, you limerent fool," said Amanda.

"Hey, don't knock the googly eyes," I said.

"I'm not knocking the googly eyes."

"I want that moment when I look into my soulmate's eyes and feel a spark. Welcome to the Busy Bee. Can I take your order?"

"I like googly eyes as much as the next girl."

"Can I get a coffee without cream?"

"I'm just saying that there's more to love than spontaneous infatuation."

"Sorry, we're out of cream. Do you want coffee without milk, instead?"

"What?"

"Huh?"

"And I'm tagging in," said Stacey. "You go help Amanda."

"Let's go." Amanda grabbed my arm and practically dragged me into the kitchen, where Taylor was sweeping the floor. "How are you going, Taylor?"

"Fine. I've set the ovens to 375°."

"Good. Today is a very exciting day for you, ladies. We've got a little time left over, so I'm going to teach you your first pastry recipe. Today, you're going to learn how to make éclairs. Go wash your hands thoroughly."

Taylor and I walked to the handwashing sink and proceeded to scrub our hands. Working with Taylor was weird. My jokes just didn't go over very well here, which kind of killed my enthusiasm, but I couldn't really do anything even if I wanted to. After a few accidents in the kitchen, Amanda had declared us "accountabilibuddies," saying we'd both be held responsible for any mistakes either of us made. I think her plan was to get us to help each other. Instead, we made a silent pact to ignore each other as much as possible during work hours.

"Okay, girls. First things first: _mise en place_. We need everything we're going to use to be in its place. For pâte à choux, that means flour, eggs, water, butter, sugar, salt, pots, trays, parchment, bowls, measuring tools, and a piping bag." We stared at her until she said, "Go."

We scrambled to collect the items she named. When it came time to collect the flour, I had a small dilemma.

"Amanda?"

"Yeah?"

"Which flour should I get?"

"Bread. The extra gluten will help the éclairs maintain their structural integrity." After we had collected the necessary items and organized them on our work area in the middle of the room, Amanda continued her instructions. "Madison, put the butter and water into a big pot, add a pinch of salt and about a tablespoon of sugar, and bring it to a boil. Taylor, I want you to weigh out 5¾ oz. of flour. Madison?"

"Yes?"

"There's nothing wrong with wanting love to be magical, but don't confuse it with infatuation. Love is deep and develops over time; it's the culmination of a million little things that won't mean anything to anyone but you and your partner."

"Okay. The water's boiling."

"Good. Taylor, bring the flour and pour it all into the pot. Madison, you're gonna stir that vigorously with a spatula until it forms a paste. Oh, and turn the heat down low."

"What do I do?" asked Taylor

"I want you to separate two eggs and add the whites to four whole eggs. We'll use the yolks for an egg wash later."

As I stirred, I asked, "Why are boys confused by tiramisu?"

"What?"

"In the movie, Tom Hanks was baffled by tiramisu. What's so confusing about it?"

Amanda laughed. "Oh, people didn't really know about tiramisu back then, so he thought it was something else."

"Something else?"

"Ask me again in a few years."

"Oh. Oh. Eww."

"Yeah."

"Boys are idiots."

We laughed as Amanda continued to direct us. I used the spatula to basically knead the dough until a film covered the bottom of the pot then put it in a bowl to cool for a few minutes. After that, Taylor took the dough to a stand mixer and slowly mixed in the eggs.

"You know," Amanda said, "If you like romcoms, my sister has a bunch on DVD. If you want, you can borrow them."

"Shouldn't we ask your sister, first?"

"She doesn't have a sister," said Stacey. "She's just embarrassed that she likes romcoms."

"Get back out front, wench."

"I'm going, I'm going."

Amanda shook her head and chuckled. "So?" she asked, turning back to me.

"So what?"

"The DVDs."

"Tell your sister I'd love to borrow her movies."

"Great. I think you'll love them."

"I think this is ready?" said Taylor, her voice more than a little unsure.

Amanda peeked over Taylor's shoulder. "Good. Put that into a couple of piping bags." Once the dough was in the bags, she had us put a smidge of the mixture onto each corner of our baking trays and place a piece of baking paper on them. That would help keep the parchment in place while we were piping the dough. After that, we piped lazy vertical s's of dough onto the parchment. Amanda showed us this little swirl technique to keep the tips down, but neither of us could get it right.

As we worked, Amanda said, "You know, DVD doesn't actually stand for anything."

"Doesn't it stand for Digital Video Disc?" asked Taylor.

"It did, but they changed the name to Digital Versatile Disc because it was more, well, versatile. After that, they just said, 'Forget it, we're just calling them DVDs.'"

"Huh."

"And that's why they call Mayor Christner the DVD Mayor: because he doesn't stand for anything."

"Even money says nobody but Amanda has ever called him that."

"Get out of my kitchen, Stace."

Our workday continued in this fashion, with Amanda instructing us while making small talk. Our éclairs turned out reasonably well. Nothing to write home about, but good enough for our first attempt. I don't know about Taylor, but I felt damn good whenever somebody bought a pastry that I baked personally. At the end of the day, Mrs. Goldstein pulled out her gramophone and played some of her old records. Mrs. Goldstein got us all dancing, even Taylor. Thanks to the carpeted floors and tight quarters, Taylor and I managed to give each other static shocks during _The Twist_. Apart from that, it was a lot of fun, even if it was kind of exhausting.

Mom picked me up in the evening. On the drive home, she asked me the question that would change my life forever.

"What do you want for dinner?" That wasn't the question. It was a question, sure, but not the question.

"Spaghetti and meatballs?"

"I can make that happen. So, have you thought about what we spoke about last night?"

"Um…"

"Because if we don't come up with a plan soon, you'll have to quit your job."

"What? That's not fair."

"Maybe not, but at least it'll get you taking this seriously."

A more perfect person might have taken this as an opportunity to straighten up and fly right. I was not a perfect person. When faced with a dilemma, I did what countless teenagers had done before me: I lied to my mother.

"That won't be necessary; a girl from work has already agreed to tutor me."

"Oh? What's her name?"

For some reason, I was completely blindsided by the obvious follow-up. In a state of panic, I answered with the first name that popped into my head.


	7. Chapter 7

It's funny how your understanding of adulthood changes over the years. When I was seven, I knew adults were "big." I also had some vague idea of reading the newspaper while drinking black coffee in the morning. When I was 13, I knew you were an adult when you turned 18. When I was 18, adults were the people who paid for things; if you were an adult, it meant you bought groceries and paid the bills and all sorts of boring things. When I started doing all those boring things for myself, I waited for that moment when I'd start to feel like an adult. When it never came, I realized something: either nobody ever really feels like an adult and it's up to each person to define what adulthood meant for herself, or seven-year-old me was actually right but my stunted growth meant I would always be a kid. Either way, it meant I could watch cartoons and eat Froot Loops in bed at 2 o'clock in the morning and nobody could tell me a damn thing. Well, almost nobody.

"I don't know how you can eat those things," said Taylor.

"They're delicious and nutritious."

"Nothing about them is nutritious."

"Shh, you're talking over the show."

"And that's another thing: didn't this channel have shows other than The Weekenders at some point? This is the fifth episode in a row."

"I may have swapped to a DVD while you were in the shower."

As the night continued and episode five turned into six and seven, I found my head slowly migrating to Taylor's chest. I absentmindedly played with a lock of Taylor's hair that had been tickling me for the past five minutes while Tino confronted his fear of clowns for our entertainment on the TV.

"Y'know, you kind of remind me of Tish," I said.

"We have literally nothing in common apart from our shared gender and the fact that we both wear glasses."

"That is such a Tish thing to say."

"She's a middle-schooler and I'm a hero."

I climbed onto her lap and looked into her eyes. "Yeah, you are." I kissed her with a ravenous hunger that surprised us both. The kiss was hot and heavy, and I felt a fire deep in my core threatening to engulf me whole.

"Wow," said Taylor.

"Yeah."

"I didn't realize early 2000s cartoons got you so worked up."

"And now you've ruined the mood." I rolled off her onto my side of the bed.

"It's probably better this way." Her fingers combed through my hair soothingly. "We have to leave for work soon, anyway."

I groaned. She was right, of course. It turned out that adulthood wasn't all sex, cartoons, and fruit-adjacent cereal. We had responsibilities creeping up on us like a giraffe stalking its prey. Taylor's job was literally a matter of life and death at times, and while The Busy Bee was never quite at that level, I did have employees who relied on me for their livelihood.

"We are kind of in the middle of a crisis," I said.

"I know, honey. It must be eggs-cruciating."

"Okay, now I'm glad we didn't get beyond second base tonight."

###

A peal of thunder shook the earth as lightning raced across the heavens and rain pelted my windshield. I pulled up to The Busy Bee. The employee park and entrance around the back were usually more convenient but offered no protection from the elements. If I stuck to my usual routine, I would have missed the waif sitting under the awning with her head between her knees; her clothes completely drenched from the rain. It took a minute, but eventually, I recognized her as Natalie, one of the regulars. I got out the car and approached her carefully. She started when I drew near but calmed when she saw my face.

"Ms. C?" Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her face was young; she couldn't have been older than 15. "I didn't know where else to go."

"It's okay. Let's get you inside and warmed up."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"I know, honey."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she whispered.

I ushered her inside and sat her at a table near the counter. I looked to the kitchen and saw light escaping from the cracks around the door. I shouted for Claire. The door swung upon, revealing a figure silhouetted against the kitchen's harsh, unnatural lighting.

"What's with all the shou- Natalie! What on earth happened to you?"

"That can wait. Do we still have that space heater?"

"Already on it."

"Natalie?" I asked her. She looked up at me, her face heartbreakingly hopeful; like she expected me to have all the answers. "I'm going to get something dry for you to change into, okay?" She nodded. I ran to Ruth's office. Experience had taught me that you never know when you'll need a spare outfit, which is why we kept a few spare outfits in various sizes there. A few hours watching YouTube videos about running a business had taught me to stay on brand, which is why those outfits used the patisserie's color scheme. In no time at all, Natalie was warming herself by a portable heater, dressed in a gold-colored blouse and a black pencil skirt. Meanwhile, Claire and I discussed the elephant in the room.

"I can't believe you made an elephant cake topper."

"Isn't it amazing?" said Claire. "I'm amazing."

"Not to mention modest."

"Pfft. Modesty's overrated."

"Hey, Natalie, come check this out."

Natalie plodded to the kitchen door, then practically jumped to the table when she saw the topper. "This is amazing."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said that you were amazing."

"Yeah, but you can tell that that's what she meant to say."

Natalie turned to me. "Is that fondant?"

"You'll have to ask Claire."

"It's modeling chocolate. You ever use modeling chocolate?"

Natalie shook her head. "No, but I have seen it on YouTube. I know it's supposed to be hard to work with."

"Yep. I am pretty great." Claire gave me a smug look, as though she were daring me to say otherwise.

"As fun as this is, we do have work to do."

"Right."

"Natalie, since you're already here and you seem to know a thing or two about baking, you're being shanghaied into service."

"What am I doing?"

"You're the dogsbody," said Claire. Upon seeing our blank faces, she said, "God, is that British, too? You'll do the grunt work."

"So why not just say that?" I asked.

"Because after years of watching movies and tv shows from around the world, I no longer know the authentic me."

"To be honest, I didn't really know what 'shanghai' meant, either," said Natalie.

"I give up," I said. "Natalie, are you cool with helping out for a bit?" She nodded. "Great. Now, we don't have to talk about why you're here until you're ready, but I do need to ask you a few questions. Have you been physically harmed?"

"No."

"Are you safe?" She shrugged. "Let me rephrase that: are you in immediate physical danger?"

"No."

"Do your parents know where you are?"

Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. "No."

"Okay." I smiled at her. "Whenever you're ready to talk, I'll be here."

After that, we got to work preparing as many egg-based recipes as we could manage. At some point, Claire started talking about movies, and we couldn't get her to shut up.

"You ever think about rich people in movies? Like, the extras playing them."

"Not really," I said.

"Most people don't, but it gets weird when you think about them."

"What do you mean?" asked Natalie.

"Oh no, don't encourage her."

"I mean, how many times have you seen rich snobs getting their just deserts from some average Joe in a movie? Like in… Well, I can't quite think of an example off the top of my head—"

"Or pull one out your—"

"Natalie!"

"—but I'm sure you know the kind of scene I'm talking about. Rich snobs in a fancy restaurant get shown up by Jake and Elwood—Ah, the Blues Brothers! Anyway, Jake and Elwood take them down a peg, everyone in the audience laughs, and the movie goes on. But those rich snobs are played by broke actors. Meanwhile, Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi are multi-millionaires."

"So, what's your point?" asked Natalie.

"No point. It's just something weird I noticed."

"And that's why you don't encourage her."

We continued to work in high spirits until Ruth arrived at around 9. She asked me if we could have a word in her office, which I was more than happy to do.

Sitting in one of the plush office chairs Taylor had borrowed from the Elite, I asked, "What do you need?"

"It looks like the ordering mistake was on our end."

"Damn it."

"Yeah. When we were restocking after the catering gig, somebody seems to have displaced the decimal point."

"So, what does that mean for us?"

"It means we'll have to eat the eggs."

I groaned. "Sorry. Taylor's been making egg puns non-stop since I told her."

"Oh, I didn't even mean to do that."

"Who could have made the order?"

"Going forward, it'll just be me. We need to prevent a repeat of this, and the simplest way to avoid it is by concentrating power at the top."

"Well, I guess that makes sense," I said.

"As for the egg order, based on the time it was placed, it was probably either you or Claire."

"I don't remember placing an order at all."

"You were pretty out of it when I arrived. We're lucky you didn't set the building on fire."

"Hey, I can bake in my sleep."

"You practically were." Ruth and I laughed. "Do you want to tell Claire or shall I?"

"I can do it. Do you mind if I borrow your office for a minute?"

"What's mine is literally yours."

Ruth left to find Claire for me. While I was waiting for her to arrive, a horrible thought occurred to me: if I couldn't remember much from that night, then maybe Claire couldn't remember much, either. Maybe I could pin the order on her entirely and get her to, I don't know, work unpaid overtime to make up for the egg expenditure? To my everlasting shame, I actually considered doing this for way too long. It was only the thought of my superhero wife and my adolescent pledge to become a better person that stayed my hand. By the time Claire arrived, I had managed to school my features, but I could still feel the taint eating at my heart.


End file.
